


gifts

by driedvoices



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Dubious Consent, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://kh-drabble.livejournal.com">kh_drabble</a> Secret Santa '11. Larxene wakes up in Wonderland. It's all downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gifts

When Larxene wakes up to a plethora of flowers, all more than a few heads taller than her and looking more than a little scandalized by her presence, she just _knows_ this is going to be a bad morning. The stench of roses chokes her; she never has had any patience for gardening, but pulling weeds can be therapeutic, or so she's heard. She flicks out her knives, wondering whether petals are similar to hair or to something more vital: fingers, maybe, or skin. It's something Vexen would know, and the thought of him makes her grin; when she slices through the elegant stems surrounding her, she pretends she was there when he died, her blood rushing as sap covers her hands.

There's dirt stuck to her after, smudged over her cheeks and wedged under her fingernails. She hates the feel of it, finds the earthy smell base and overbearing. It keeps her grounded. Ozone is what she likes, and static; the sharp, pristine openness of the sky. She picks her fingernails with one of her knives and tries to figure out where she is. 

A sliver of sky peeks through the greenery, all but strangled by serpentine trees and vines. Larxene spots what appears to be a piece of toast on wings fluttering by her ear. Wonderland, then. That's good. She can deal with this particular brand of candy-colored insanity. It'll make for a nice vacation. 

"He went the other way," someone calls from above her. Larxene cranes her neck to look upward and grimaces, because there's a very round cat staring back at her, lounging in the treetops. 

"Who went the other way?" she demands, crossing her arms over her chest. "And how can you tell which way I was going when I was standing still?" 

"Were you?" the cat murmurs. 

" _Who_ ," Larxene reminds him helpfully. Her fingers twitch. 

"Who what?" His grin is luminescent. "Try going west." 

Her knife should have pinned his smug face to the tree trunk. It irks her that he disappeared before it hit; Larxene _never_ misses. 

-

She figures she's been walking about a half-mile westward when she sees another person; an actual person, not a talking animal or plant or inanimate object (she meets plenty of those, though they're not as vocal after she leaves them). He's naked, huddled over himself, and she doesn't realize who it is until she's practically on top of him. 

"Christmas already?" she says gleefully, fighting the urge to clap. "I have been such a good girl. Is it my turn to kill you today?" 

Vexen shudders, looks up at her with feral, bulging eyes. "No, no," he mutters rapidly, "it's not you, it's never you—" There's a jagged wound bisecting his torso. Larxene eyes it and clucks with irritation. 

"Hush, now," she soothes, straddling his knees and pushing his hair from his brow. "I'll fix it." 

"You did this," he whimpers pathetically as her knife cuts into his throat. 

There's no blood, no satisfaction. She cuts through smoke and feels only hard ground beneath her. 

"Are you _kidding_ ," she growls, and spits on the ground where Vexen's body should lay, twitching and oozing in all manner of delightful ways. "Spoilsport."

-

The woods get darker further in; the trees more skeletal and the path more winding. She rolls her eyes at the change in scenery; it reminds her too much of Maleficent's shtick, all menacing gloom. There's nothing to be afraid of in the dark. Larxene gleams, her eyes, her teeth, her hair, her knives. Darkness is for weaker men. 

So of course the Replica is lurking in the shadows. 

"Are you not dead yet?" she asks. She's beginning to feel exasperated. "I thought the brat would have dealt with you by now. Or else I would have offered my services." He only looms harder. 

Larxene sighs. It's no fun when they don't play along. 

"If that's how it's going to be, then," she says, and lunges at him. Two things about the situation bother her: one, that the tree the Replica was standing in front is apparently also a rock; and two, he's gone before she even breaks skin. 

"Good prey is so hard to find these days," the cat says, but he has the good sense not to show himself. Larxene sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and tastes metal, the twang of copper on her tongue. 

-

The boy with the key is waiting for her when the forest breaks to daylight. She squints for a moment against the sun, and takes another to appreciate the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, the bruises blooming against his skin. His breathing is labored. She hopes his lung is collapsed. 

"Such a strong one," the cat muses, floating in circles around her head. "So much light in him. I wonder who snuffed it out." His tail bristles against Larxene's face. 

"You know what?" Larxene says, cocking her head to the side. Her hand closes around the cat's tail so quickly it hardly registers. She squeezes and he yelps, clawing desperately at her arms. 

"I've always hated cats," she says, smiling, as the bones of his neck crunch under her fingers.

-

She wakes again, this time for real, this time to Naminé's gaping mouth, her small frame at Larxene's bedside. There are pages upon pages of scribbles littering the floor around her. 

"Little girl," Larxene says through clenched teeth, "I think it's time we talked about boundaries."

"No," Naminé whispers, "I'm not done yet, it wasn't ready yet—" 

"Who gave you permission to go mucking about—" 

"I wasn't!" she protests, cringing as Larxene's fingers close around her wrists. "I just wanted you to see. You have to see, all the people you hurt, all the people you betrayed. I was trying to help you, I swear. You need to learn remorse. It was a gift."

"I hope you kept the receipt," Larxene replies dryly, tightening her grip. "Listen to me," she says, deadly quiet. Naminé does. "You have nothing to give me, witch. I _make_ the story. All you get to do is retell it." 

Naminé does not leave until after dark. It was a good day, after all.


End file.
